


night terrors

by MartyMiaMatt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Dirty Talk, Disordered Eating, Jealousy, M/M, Mindfuck, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-graphic depiction of violence, Obsession, Paranoia, Possessive Behavior, Psychosomatic Symptoms, Unreliable Narrator, dubcon, motivated ooc, obsessive infatuation, ooc keith, ooc shiro, psychological exploration, sanity slippage, subjective interpretation of events, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartyMiaMatt/pseuds/MartyMiaMatt
Summary: "I have to see you."The words formed in his brain, taking shape little by little like wisps of smoke.It was him, of course. It was always only him.





	night terrors

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE NOTES! 
> 
> So, this is kind of a dark take on Sheith.  
> This story was largely inspired, among other things, by Kai Stänicke's short film/monologue "It's consuming me" and by the 2010 "Black Swan" film.  
> It contains themes of obsessive infatuation, gradually losing touch with reality, paranoia, jealousy and self-loathing.  
> While not extremely explicit, it does depict instances of physical violence and a sexual moment that, while technically consensual, is emotionally hurtful for Keith.  
> The characterization may be pretty distant from how the characters are presented in canon; know that I am doing this on purpose.  
> Generally speaking, your reactions may vary depending on how you interpret the events and how much you decide to trust Keith's point of view. Please mind the tags and proceed with caution.  
> Lastly, Keith is written to be over 18 in this story. The story is set around season 2.  
> -  
> Marty  
> (PS: for improved immersion, I recommend listening to "Heart heart head" by Meg Myers and "We suck young blood" by Radiohead.)

_I can’t stop thinking about you._

_I need some sleep._

_I can’t sleep._

_I can’t sleep._

_I can’t sleep…_

Neon lights danced on the smooth surface of the blade.

The knife traced an arc in mid-air, suspended in the semi-darkness of the room, before landing back on the palm of Keith’s hand.

He threw it again, with a soft flick of his wrist. One. Two. Three times.

Each time he recaptured it deftly, wrapping his naked fingers around the hilt.

He was lying on his back on the bed, facing the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. The air inside the room felt warm and stifling.

He held out the hand holding the knife, looking at the way it captured glimpses of the fluorescent lights embedded in the headboard, and a tiny, distorted version of his reflection.

He looked away, and threw the knife again.

On the fourth throw, he miscalculated, hesitating for a moment too long. There was a disruption in the practiced sequence of movements that had seemed to have become automatic.

He missed the knife, and it fell flat on the mattress.

 

Keith probed around the bed to retrieve the Galra weapon, his eyes still fixated on the ceiling.

When his fingertips brushed against the cold tip of the blade, though, something seemed to make him freeze. He stalled; he retracted his hand and let his arm fall to his side, leaving the knife where it was.

 

He closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, a headache kept burning and pulsing, something like a constant buzzing noise that had started a few days before and never stopped.

On and off again, nothing he did ever made it go away for good. It kept gnawing at his brain, like fever, like a parasite in his ears.

 

_I have to see you._

The words formed in his brain, taking shape little by little like wisps of smoke.

A pattern of thought that had become more and more frequent in the last few days (weeks? months?), until slipping back into it had started to feel familiar, comforting, an established routine whenever he was alone.

 

_Shiro._

Keith bit his tongue, shifting restlessly on the mattress. His neck felt hot, sweat had glued the fabric of his clothes to his body. Needles prickled at every inch of his skin, making him want to scratch himself raw.

He tried moving his head from a side to the other, searching for a cooler spot on the thick pillows. Everything burned him. The buzzing noise grew louder, thundering in his eardrums.

He hadn’t been able to get more than a few hours of sleep over the last ten days.

 

_Shiro._

 

It was him, of course. It was always only him.

 

The hand resting on Keith’s chest slid down along his abdomen, over the cotton of his plain black t-shirt; then further down, gliding past a small portion of uncovered skin, past the trail of small, soft hairs that disappeared under the waistband of his boxers.

His palm met hot, sensitive skin, and Shiro’s gentle smile and attentive eyes materialized in his field of vision.

His dick was soft inside the warm protection of fabric, but he thought of Shiro’s back, of muscles straining in effort and the twist of shoulder blades under skin, and he thought of Shiro’s legs, the strength in his calves, the delicate skin of the back of his knees; and Keith grit his teeth and he wrapped his hand around his dick and his head plunged back onto the pillow.

He started rubbing up and down, with ample, sloppy movements, not caring about the scratching of nails.

 

_I need you to see me._

But Shiro never would.

Keith needed him to understand. But how?

He couldn’t explain, not in words, not in a way that would convey what he felt. Words were meaningless. And what else could he _do_?

 

Keith grunted in effort. Tears started to prick at the corner of his eyes. He held back a noise in his throat, more frustration than pleasure. His careless touches didn’t feel enough, they couldn’t make him come. He wondered if someone would hear from outside the room and guess what he was doing.

 

_You don’t notice me._

But Keith could never _tell_ him.

 

 

 

The corridor was hazy. The light was too white, too blinding; it hurt his eyes like being stabbed through his skull.

Keith blinked.

The contour of things was faded and uncertain. He glanced at the smooth, shiny pavement of the hallway and the pavement seemed to rotate, to melt under his feet.

Nausea exploded in his palate, bitter on his tongue.

Keith clawed at the closest wall and leaned against it heavily with one side of his body. Each one of his limbs weighted like tons of concrete; his head didn’t stop spinning when he closed his eyes.

 

“Keith?”

He opened his eyes to meet Hunk’s worried face inches away from his.

He flinched, instinctively drawing back, only to realize that Hunk wasn’t that close at all. The other boy was standing in front of him, several steps away.

“Keith, mate, are you alright?” Hunk urged again, apprehension coloring his tone.

Keith bit the inside of his cheek. The small stab of pain felt grounding, but the weakness in his knees didn’t diminish.

 

He rubbed his face with the palm of his right hand.

When he looked at it, it was shaking.

( _Shiro._ )

“Yeah,” Keith mumbled, remembering he was supposed to answer. “Just. Tired. Didn’t get much sleep.”

“No offense, but… you’re looking a little sick. Maybe you need to see Coran? I don’t know, just to check you’re not coming down with anything weird.”

“Maybe,” Keith agreed faintly.

( _Shiro._ He needed to see Shiro. Shiro would know what to tell him, how to help him. But Shiro was busy and had no time to waste with Keith and his childish, selfish tantrums, did he?)

 

Hunk put one hand on Keith’s shoulder. He clasped it and patted it lightly, like he would do with Lance or Pidge, but a little awkwardly, as if remembering mid-gesture that Keith wasn’t as comfortable with that sort of contact.

 

Hunk let him go.

Keith shivered. Hunk’s face was gentle, but his brown eyes on his face felt too deep, too inquisitive.

“Want me to get you some food, for later? Maybe you can’t keep it down now… maybe something else?”

The buzzing sound was there again, nearly drowning Hunk’s kind voice.

Keith shook his head.

“No.” Keith’s mouth was dry. “I’m… fine. I can walk. I’ll go see Coran.”

Hunk tried to smile a little. So sincere, so considerate.  

It made Keith feel worse.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“Yes. Sure.”

Keith looked down. Shadows flickered at the corners of his vision.

“Thanks, Hunk,” he whispered.

He wasn’t even sure Hunk had heard him; but the other Paladin seemed to have accepted his answer, because he glanced at him one more time and then started walking away.

 

Keith rubbed his forearms, sensing the tension in his muscles underneath his fingers.

Maybe he _was_ getting ill, after all.

 

 

“You did really well today, Keith.”

Shiro beamed at him, warm and bright.

It was the smile that made people feel as if they had been bestowed a precious gift; as if they had been rewarded for accomplishing an impossible task.

Keith jumped slightly when he felt Shiro’s human hand on his head.

Shiro tousled Keith’s hair, fingertips getting tangled in some of Keith’s black locks.

Keith closed his eyes, inadvertently leaning into the touch, allowing the gentle caress to draw him in.

“You were able to keep calm and guide Lance and Pidge when they panicked. You didn’t lose your temper and you acted quickly and efficiently. I am very proud of you.”

 

Keith almost couldn’t register the meaning behind the words, but Shiro’s voice was so warm, so enwrapping. He could drown in it. He never wanted the contact to stop.

He sighed.

He looked up at Shiro, handsome, towering over him. Affection softened his features, lighting up his whole face.

“Thank you, Shiro…”

 

Shiro nodded at him, still smiling. He removed his hand.

He looked over at Lance, who was standing next to Keith with his arms crossed, still in his Paladin gear.

Shiro moved away, his attention shifting on the other boy.

“Lance, you did well too. You left before I gave the command, but overall…”

 

Keith trembled.

Without Shiro’s body close to him, the temperature around him seemed to drop.

He arched his shoulders, clenched his fists to block the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

Next to him, Shiro kept talking to Lance.

 

 

After dinner, a rare moment of peace in one of the castle’s common spaces.

Hunk and Lance were huddled on the same sofa, close to each other, excitedly talking to each other about some anecdote from their days at the Garrison. Pidge was sitting cross-legged on the floor at their feet, playing with the space mice who kept nibbling on her fingers and tried to steal away her tech equipment.

 

On the opposite sofa, Keith was sitting with his legs hugged against his chest, his chin almost brushing his knees. His bangs fell messily over his eyes, partly obscuring his vision.

He’d followed the conversation for a while, but then he’d started spacing out, slightly dizzy from his half-empty stomach. Earlier that night he hadn’t been able to push down more than a spoonful or two of the usual goo.

 

He looked at the others. Allura and Coran had retired to their respective quarters, advising the team to soon do the same. Shiro was close to the rest of the team, not really sitting with them but leaning with his upper body against the sofa’s headrest. A small, tired smile played on his lips as he nodded, listening to Hunk.

He seemed tranquil, at last relaxed after a long day tending to his duties as team leader.

 

As Keith looked at them, all of a sudden, his eyes met Lance’s gaze.

Keith swallowed. He felt as if he’d been caught red-handed doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Lance kept staring at him, uncharacteristically quiet. There was a curious expression on his face, one of his eyebrows slightly tilted, his lips parted, some sort of silent question.

Keith felt sweat on the palm of his hands.

 

_Lance knows._

 

Lance’s gaze lingered on Keith’s face while Hunk spoke, and Keith kept staring back at him.

He felt his tongue itch with the sudden, wild urge to tell him.

_Tell him. Everything._

About him. And Shiro.

 

What would Lance think?

Because Lance already knew. He was certain of it; the way Lance was looking at him now, it could mean nothing else.

Lance knew. He was just pretending not to know, hiding behind those knowing looks and those smug little smirks.

Why? Was it to mess with Keith?

Was Lance having fun at his expenses? Did he think he could judge Keith, that he was so much better than him?

 

Keith’s nails sank into the cool, synthetic surface of the sofa.

He glanced at Shiro, who was standing so close to Lance, almost enough to touch him if he’d wanted to, but not quite doing it.

Would Lance be jealous? Would he envy Keith, consider it as another example of what he called ‘Shiro playing favorites’?

Did Lance want Shiro in the same way that Keith did? That feeling, the thirst for water in the middle of the desert? The _longing_ that made Keith’s throat burn and his stomach ache and his hands claw at empty air?

Would Lance see Keith as a rival in that regard too, a rival for Shiro’s… attention? Affection?

 

Keith kept holding Lance’s gaze, stubbornly, defiantly. He wouldn’t be the first one to drop this, this silent challenge, whatever it was.

Finally, it was Lance who turned away first.

Keith felt a wild, irrational rush of triumph.

 

Lance couldn’t have it. What he had. What he and Shiro had.

That was something for Keith alone, something he wouldn’t share.

 

Lance knew. Let him know then; Keith didn’t care. But Lance had better step back, he had to stay away, or Keith would make him.

 

Hunk finished his tale and the room felt silent.

Keith, even as he looked away, felt his skin burn with the distinct feeling that all of the others were now staring at him.

He kept turning away, even as his heart raced wildly.

If Lance knew, had he already told Pidge and Hunk? And Allura, and Coran?

They all already knew. They knew what was going on; they could guess at the thoughts running through Keith’s head. Maybe, when he wasn’t around, they’d whisper about him. He could imagine them making fun of him behind his back, of how desperate he was, of his dirty mind.

 

Shiro stood up, stretching his arms and rubbing the back of his neck.

He hid a yawn behind the back of his flesh hand.

“Well, it’s best if we all try to get some sleep. Let’s go, guys.”

The others murmured, but one by one they started getting up.

 

Keith let them walk past him. He shivered again as Shiro passed him by, talking to Pidge.

 

The whole team knew.

 

Shiro was the only one who was still oblivious.

 

_Can’t you see, Shiro?_

_When will you see?_

 

Keith’s head was pounding.

He walked along the hallway like a sleepwalker, sensing rather than seeing where he was going. There was darkness and quiet all around him and the sound of his breath echoed deafeningly in his ears, so loud he was sure that it would awaken the whole castle…

The floor was cold under his bare feet. Still, sweat pooled under his armpits and dripped down his spine, sticking the back of his t-shirt to his skin.

He followed the maze of corridors towards the bathrooms, his heartbeat thumping in his throat.

 

( _Shiro’s hand. Shiro’s robotic hand on his throat, Shiro’s lips brushing his earlobe._

_“Say it again, Keith. I like it when you say it like that.”)_

He approached the door to the bathroom with slow, mechanical movements.

The lights were on, shedding a light-blue hue on the vast, square room. Walls and floors were made of an aquamarine-colored substance similar to marble that glimmered lightly.

He heard the sound of water running behind the corner, coming from one of the showers that were hidden away from his view.

Keith stepped closer, holding his breath.

Standing just past the doorway, he glanced behind the corner of the wall.

 

Shiro was standing there, turning away from him.

He was not entirely naked, not yet. Keith watched as he crossed his arms to remove his shirt, uncovering his broad back inch by inch.

Scarred skin, intricate patterns of older and newer marks, and Keith knew them by heart but every time he could lose himself counting them.

Beautiful, still, perfect, breathtaking.

Keith’s eyes wandered down, following the lines of Shiro’s body. The curve of his ass, the hard lines of his toned thighs, his defined calves, the shade of dark hairs on his legs.

 

One hand on the wall, Keith stared.

Shiro folded his shirt neatly and laid it in a corner on the floor, on top of a pile of other personal objects. He stepped under the shower head.

Water poured on his hair, trickling down the back of his neck, along the line of his spine.

Keith’s hand curled into a fist on the wall.

 

Just a few steps and he could have touched him.

The wrong movement, an accidental noise, and Shiro would know he was there.

 

Heat pulsed under his skin.

He felt drunk.

Slowly, carefully, Keith retreated.

 

Shiro never turned his way.

 

 

“You’re right, Shiro. Timing is vital—”

Keith stepped towards Allura’s lean shape.

She and Shiro were standing in the middle of the hangar, Shiro wearing his full armor, holding his helmet under one arm. The others were already in their lions, getting ready to leave.

The princess kept talking to Shiro in a soft, hurried tone. They were close. Shiro was gazing at her, listening intently, his upper body turned towards her. He nodded gravely.

She raised one hand, resting it on his chest for a short moment. Her face was turned upwards so that she could look at him more easily. Her tightly tied hair glistened under the bright lights.

They did not notice Keith striding towards them.

 

His pulse raced in his ears. Only the dull ache in his jaw informed him that he was baring his teeth.

Allura was facing away from him. It was Shiro who saw him first.

Keith felt his gaze, the scalding heat of Shiro’s eyes like a mark being branded on his skin.

 

“Princess,” Keith said, ice-cold.

He did not look at her, his eyes fixed on Shiro’s face instead.

Allura turned towards him. Her expression turned to surprise, then worry.

“Yes, Keith…?”

 

He walked up closer, until his body almost brushed against hers. Taller than her, making her shoulders reflexively tense up, her clear eyes become guarded, even as she remained gentle.

“Keith, are you alright?”

 

She reached out.

Keith deflected her hand, grabbing at her wrist and pushing her arm away before she could touch him.

 

“Keith…”

Shiro stepped up, a warning of danger in his voice.

 

Keith yanked his arm away, more roughly than needed.

He turned away, avoiding Allura’s questioning and hurt gaze, and the disappointment on Shiro’s face.

He stormed off, anger still crackling inside his veins, the unsatisfied urge to grab something and shatter it, hit it with his bare fists and his nails and tear it to pieces.

 

_(“Are you alright, Keith?”_

_It was different when it was Shiro who asked._

_The palm of Shiro’s hand on his forehead. Warm, calloused skin._

_Keith’s eyes fluttered close._

_“Yes, it seems like you could have a bit of a fever… it doesn’t seem too bad, though. I’ll see what I can get you.”_

_Shiro’s hand lingered on Keith’s skin, dampened with sweat. Bruised-up knuckles grazed his burning cheeks, a slow, hesitant caress descending on his face._

_Keith thought about sinking his teeth into the softer, more vulnerable flesh of the inside of Shiro’s wrist. Leaving a trail of kisses on that skin, licking it all over._

_Marking him, somehow. Claiming him._

_Then Shiro would know. He would have to know._

**_Mine_ ** _, he thought urgently._

**_mine mine mine mine mine_ ** _.)_

 

Nighttime. The castle-ship asleep around them.

Their heavy breaths, this time in unison, the only sound disrupting the silence in that isolated area.

The showers, again. They were under one of the shower heads and water kept falling on both their bodies, wrapping them in columns of slowly rising vapor.

Keith’s forehead bumped against the cold wall. Its surface was cool and smooth, the patterns on it much more intricate than they looked from a distance. Not simply a homogenous aquamarine color, but countless iridescent shades of blue and azure and violet and green, glimmering and fusing together to create the illusion of a sparkling ocean.

 

“Shiro—”

Shiro’s hands gripped his hips. The mechanic hand was cold on his skin, fingers holding him in place with a steely, unforgiving grasp.

Keith clawed at the wall in front of him, his nails leaving long trails of scratches on its surface. The steam had clouded it, making it opaque.

“Shiro, please…”

Hot breath on his neck.

“You like it this way, don’t you?”

Shiro grasped his thighs.

“Open up your legs more, baby.”

Shiro pulled Keith’s pelvis backwards and thrusted into him, pushing his erect cock between Keith’s thighs.

 

Keith whimpered. Shiro’s erection pressed up against his own. Shiro’s crotch started grinding against his ass in slow, circular motions.

Shiro’s hand moved from Keith’s hips between his legs. Shiro’s right hand wrapped around Keith’s dick. It was painfully hard, strained and reddened under the cascade of warm water on their bodies.

Shiro’s mechanic hand began moving up and down the length. With one finger, he brushed briefly, almost casually, over the head.

 

Keith threw his head back, damp strands of hair whipping Shiro’s shoulder.

He opened his mouth to let out a strangled sound, but it was muffled by the palm of Shiro’s human hand pressed against his mouth.

Two fingers pushed past his lips and pushed his tongue down, reaching the back of his palate.

Keith took them in, licked them, sucked on the two digits, despite the gag reflex closing up his throat.

 

Shiro kept touching him lightly, metallic fingertips trailing on his cock. He felt his knees bent, pleasure coming in irregular waves down his spine, the tension building up but never finding a way to vent.

Shiro chuckled in his ear, dark and dangerous.

“So dirty, Keith,” Shiro murmured.

He slid his thumb around the tip, almost absent-mindedly. It made Keith keen and try to pull away, only for Shiro to fuck harder into his thighs.

“You’re so hard. So wet. For me.”

Teeth pulled at Keith’s earlobe.

He whined, shaking uncontrollably, delirious and desperate for release.

“Shiro. Please. Touch me…”

 

Shiro’s mechanic hand kept pumping at Keith’s erection with lazy, slack movements.

“You want me this much?”

Another thrust, the friction between his legs still not enough to allow Keith to come.

Shiro left a trail of wet kisses and hard bites on Keith’s neck.

“Look at you. You’re pathetic. You should be ashamed of yourself…”

Thrust.

Keith gasped, tears pooling in his eyes. Hot water kept falling on his head. The steam was making him dizzy.

“You’re _worthless_ ,” Shiro growled in his ear. “You’re a disgrace to Voltron. You will never be a Paladin.”

 

“Shiro—”

Keith sobbed. Semen spurted in long, white streaks that fell all over his stomach and his bare feet.

His vision blackened. The world around him started spinning and disappeared in a blur, while the water kept falling and Shiro’s strong arms still encircled Keith’s trembling body.

 

 

“Keith? Did you hear me?”

Keith slid into his usual seat at the table. The lights were too bright.

Absent-mindedly, he lifted his head to look at Pidge, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table and was waving a hand in front of his face.

“Sorry.” His tongue tasted like sand or sawdust. He reached out for the spoon a few inches from his hand and brought it closer to the bowl in front of him. “Did you say something, Pidge?”

“I said,” she started repeating patiently, “that you’re really starting to look like a walking dead, buddy. Are you sure you didn’t catch some strange alien virus that we’re not aware of?”

 

He let the spoon fall into the green substance inside the bowl with a wet _plop_. Months of eating the stuff had not managed to make it any more palatable than the first time.

 

“Coran did some analyses. He said there’s nothing wrong with me,” Keith mumbled, mechanically repeating the litany of words he had memorized after practicing it countless times.

“Pidge, leave him alone,” he heard Shiro’s gentle intervention from his right, on his side of the table. Shiro’s figure was a blur at the edge of his vision. Lance was sitting between the two of them.

 

They all started eating. For a while, the others went back to other conversations, the buzz of chattering and occasional laughter bouncing from different corners of the table.

It took Keith a few moments to realize that Lance, by his side, had grown quiet and was once again staring intently at him, with his chin propped on his hand.

 

Keith turned his head to eye him cautiously.

“So,” Lance started. “You didn’t get much sleep, did you?”

His words were dripping with malice. He knew Keith’s secret, he was letting him know that he knew and that Keith couldn’t hide from him.

 

The spoon fell from Keith’s weak grip and clanked against the bowl.

“I said I’m fine,” he growled.

 

Lance’s smile faltered, but he persisted.  

He leaned closer to Keith. His blue eyes scanned Keith’s face.

“Pidge is right, you know. You’re pale. Are you even eating anything?”

 

Keith clenched his jaw.

 

_You don’t care. Stop pretending. You’re not trying to help me._

He drew back.

“It’s none of your business,” he hissed. He grabbed the chair and moved to stand up.

Lance stood in his way, blocking him with his body.

“Hey, hey, Keith, wait.”

Lance’s hand touched his forearm.

“Come on, man. Sorry, I didn’t want to make you mad.”

 

Lance’s face was too close. Why was he still smiling? It didn’t look like a happy smile.

It was sad, and trembling, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“If you don’t wanna talk to me, that’s fine. Maybe you need to talk to Shiro…”

 

Something inside him _snapped_.

 

Keith lunged forward.

Before anyone around them could react, he grabbed the collar of Lance’s shirt with both hands, causing the other boy to let out a choked out noise.

He felt the impact of his fist against the tender skin of Lance’s cheek, the crash of knuckles hitting Lance’s nose and mouth, pushing his lips against his teeth.

 

Blood spurted on his face as Lance fell backwards, covering his face with one arm.

 

Growling, Keith jumped again.

Indistinct voices reached his eardrums, but his brain didn’t decipher what they were saying.

He straddled Lance, pushing him down under his body.

Lance kicked him, trying to push him away, almost managing to throw him off balance.

One hand grabbed a fistful of Lance’s hair, and Keith smashed Lance’s head on the floor with a sickening _thud._

 

“Keith! Keith, _ENOUGH_!”

All of a sudden, strong arms wrapped around his upper body, forcefully pulling him away, caging his arms.

Shiro’s heartbeat, too fast. And the smell of Shiro’s skin in his nostrils.

Keith kept writhing, wildly, kicking at the air with his knees and struggling to yank his arms free.

In front of them, Lance slowly got up. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Bright red blood drippled between his fingers.

His face was ashen, and he was shaking.

Hunk and Pidge were staring at Keith.  

There was horror on their faces.

 

“Keith,” Shiro murmured. He still didn’t let go of him, but his grip loosened little by little.

“Keith. Calm down.”

Keith opened his mouth. The taste of bile filled his palate, but he had nothing to throw up.

A hoarse, desperate yell exploded in his ears, shook his whole body from the core.

It took him several moments to realize that it had come out of his mouth, that he was the one who was screaming like a wounded animal.

Held by Shiro’s arms, Keith started sobbing violently. Tears flooded his eyes, trickled down his face, until his teammate’s shocked faces disappeared in a haze.

He didn’t stop crying for what felt like an entire lifetime.

 

 

“Keith, talk to me. You need to tell me what is going on.”

Keith pressed his hands against Shiro’s chest, pushing him roughly against the wall.

“Keith, what—”

He put one hand on Shiro’s nape, pressing their foreheads together. He breathed in the warmth of Shiro’s breath.

Pressing their lips together and claiming Shiro’s mouth felt like victory, a sudden rush of exhilaration, like finally finding  water after crawling for days under the scorching sun chasing after a mirage.

He pushed his tongue in, made Shiro part his lips. Keith felt him moan, felt Shiro’s body relax into the touch and Shiro’s cock harden against his stomach.

 

“Fuck, Shiro,” he breathed out. His fingers scraped the shaved hair on Shiro’s nape.

He sank his teeth into Shiro’s lower lip until he drew blood, and Shiro’s hips rolled against his.

 

He held the Galra knife in his free hand.

The blade glimmered in the faint light of the semi-dark corridor.

 

He pressed the blade against Shiro’s neck, right under his chin, forcing him to throw his head back.

 

“Keith…?”

The other man looked at him, surprise in his dark eyes.

 

Keith licked his lips, feeling the coppery taste of Shiro’s blood.

 

The blade sank deeper into the skin. A thin, oblique cut began to open; a thin trickle of dark blood drippled down the knife and onto the floor.

 

“You don’t see me, Shiro,” Keith said. His voice was strained and trembling.

“You look at me, but you never see me.”

 

 

Gasping for air, Keith jolted awake.

He sat up in his bed. His heart was pounding; his legs were trapped in a cocoon of tangled sheets.

Little by little, his eyes adapted to the darkness and he started making sense of the familiar shapes of his bedroom. He was on the castle-ship; he was alone in his bed. The lights on the headboard were still on.

He looked down.

His right fist was clenched. He was holding the Galra knife; his fingers were gripping the hilt so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

He let go of the knife, throwing it to a side on the mattress.

 

He lifted the sheets, disentangling his naked legs.

His skin itched, it felt clammy, covered in sweat.

His underwear was clinging to his skin in an unpleasant way. He palmed himself through his boxers.

He wasn’t hard, his penis laid flaccid between his thighs. But it wasn’t merely sweat, he realized; he must have climaxed in his sleep, and the cotton of his boxers was sticky, wet, drenched in his cum.

 

Trembling, Keith pulled the sheets over his head and fell back down.

He covered his eyes with his hands, rubbing at his eyelids until small sparks of pain flared in his orbits. He wasn’t cold, but he couldn’t stop shivering.

 

He curled up on one side and pushed his face into the pillows.

 

He thought about Shiro’s smile, about the darkness of his eyes.

 

Soon they would wake him up for another mission, another day.

Keith closed his eyes.

 

_I can’t stop thinking about you._

_I need some sleep…_

_But I can’t sleep._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> RAMBLING TIME!!!  
> Please keep in mind that this piece is in no way meant to bash Shiro/Keith or to present it as an intrinsecally unhealthy pairing. This is just one particular scenario that I decided to explore. I like Sheith, and I wouldn't be writing about them if that weren't the case. 
> 
> This is kind of a weird story. I think it's a bit too long and I apologize if the result was boring, but I liked all the scenes I imagined and I couldn't bring myself to cut any of them.  
> I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out overall, but I'm not very happy with the title...
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I'm always eager to get feedback. :)  
> -  
> Marty


End file.
